Chapter 4: Ancestral Crypt

The walk back up to his bedchamber was a testament to the utter uselessness of Jack’s new body.

He leaned almost his entire weight onto the brass-headed cane, his left hand gripping the banister of the staircase tightly. Every single step was like a victory.

On the third landing, his lungs suddenly seized.

Jack collapsed against the cold stone wall, his forehead resting on the rough masonry. A violent coughing fit tore through him. He squeezed his eyes shut, clutching his chest as the stagnant energy in his Grey Core flared, sending a wave of icy needles through his collarbones. He pulled his sleeve to his mouth, catching the dark, thick fluid that forced its way up his throat.

When the fit finally passed, he stared at the dark stain on his gray cuff. It wasn’t just blood anymore. It was dark, almost blackish-red, and it felt unnaturally cold to the touch. The unvented death mana was pooling in his chest like stagnant swamp water. If he didn’t find a way to let it flow, his own body would freeze from the inside out before the villagers ever had a chance to starve.

“My Lord!”

Karen’s voice echoed from the bottom of the stairs. She was running up, her face twisted in terror as she saw him slumped against the wall.

“I am fine, Karen,” Jack gasped, his voice barely a whisper. He raised a hand to stop her, though even that small gesture made his arm tremble. “Just… lost my footing.”

“You shouldn’t have gone down there!” she scolded, her eyes welling with tears as she reached his side. She immediately tried to wedge her small shoulder under his armpit to support him. “The hall is a drafty icebox, and those people… they don’t understand how sick you are. They are selfish, Lord Jack. They only think of their own hearths.”

“They think of their children, Karen,” Jack said, allowing her to help him take the final few steps toward his bedchamber. “A lord who cannot keep his people warm is no lord at all.”

“But to promise them coal in two days?” Karen let out a soft, miserable sob as she pushed his bedroom door open. “The mines are sealed. Even Giles won’t go near them. How can we find coal?”

“I have a plan,” Jack said, his voice flat and steady. “But for it to work, I need absolute quiet. I need to rest, Karen. No interruptions. No matter what noises you hear from this room, you must not enter. Do you understand?”

Karen looked at him, her lips trembling. She clearly wanted to argue, to sit by his bed and press damp cloths to his forehead all night, but the sheer, intensity in his pale eyes silenced her.

“I… I understand, My Lord,” she whispered, lowering her head. “I will chop the wet wood in the courtyard. I will make sure no one disturbs you.”

“Thank you, Karen. Go get some rest yourself.”

Jack stepped into his room, closed the oak door, and slid the iron bolt into place. The loud clack of the metal lock felt like the final barrier between him and the rest of the world.

He was entirely alone.

The room was still freezing. The wind was howling outside.

“Good,” Jack thought, leaning heavily on his cane as he surveyed the room. “The storm will drown out whatever noise I make.”

According to the memories of the old John Frost-Grip, the founders of the family had built the castle directly over the ancient burial vaults. In the early days, when the Frost-Grips openly practiced the Necromancy to defend the northern borders, the reigning lord maintained a direct, private entrance to the crypts from his personal chambers. Over the generations, as the imperial capital began to demonize necromancy, the family had hidden the entrance, covering it up to avoid the prying eyes of royal inquisitors.

Jack walked to the corner of the room, his eyes scanning the cracked stone floor.

He stopped in front of a massive, half-rotted bear-skin rug. The fur was patchy, stiff with decades of accumulated grime, and smelled faintly of mildew and old grease. It was tucked partially beneath a wardrobe that looked as if it hadn’t been moved in years.

Jack gritted his teeth. He hooked the curved handle of his cane into a tear in the leather backing of the rug and pulled.

Nothing happened. The rug was incredibly heavy, virtually frozen to the stone floor.

“Come on,” Jack muttered, wrapping both hands around the cane and leaning his entire body weight backward.

With a loud, tearing sound, the rug shifted an inch. Dust exploded from the ancient fur, sending Jack into another brief coughing fit. He clamped his jaw shut, refusing to let the noise escape, and pulled again. Inch by inch, he dragged the stiff leather away from the corner, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

Beneath the rug, covered in a thick layer of grey dirt, lay a massive iron ring.

Jack knelt down, his knees popping painfully on the hard stone. He used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away the grime, revealing a heavy, circular stone slab set flush with the floorboards. The seam was incredibly tight, sealed with a greyish metal that Jack recognized instantly.

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Runes.

Three intricate, interlocking symbols were etched into the iron border surrounding the stone. They were faded, their silver luster long tarnished into a dark, leaden grey, but the magical structure remained intact. It was a blood-lock, designed to respond only to the direct lineage of the Frost-Grip family.

Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver sewing pin he had swiped from Karen’s basket earlier. He didn’t hesitate. He pressed the sharp point into the pad of his left thumb, pushing until a bead of dark, thick blood welled up.

He smeared his thumb directly over the central rune.

For a long, tense second, nothing happened.

Then, a faint, clicking sound echoed from beneath the stone.

The tarnished silver lines of the runes suddenly flared with a pale blue light. The light was cold, devoid of any heat, but as it spread through the stone, the dark blood on the rune dissolved, turning into a fine, grey vapor that was instantly absorbed by the metal.

With a heavy, grinding groan, the stone slab began to sink.

Jack scrambled backward, his cane clattering to the floor as the circular door dropped three inches into the ground and then slid slowly into a hidden recess in the wall.

A draft of ancient cold rushed out of the opening.

Jack braced himself, expecting to gasp, but as the freezing air hit his face, a strange sensation washed over him. The tight, burning agony in his chest suddenly vanished. The stagnant, suffocating pressure in his lungs cleared, replaced by a deep, incredibly soothing sensation. It was like a man dying of thirst finally taking a long drink of cool, clean water.

His Grey Core spun.